


Isn't It Grand, Boys?

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, Gen, Giant Robots, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 13:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12300033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: You’re caught up in your work, or you would have noticed sooner that Metroplex is trying to get your attention. As it is, you don’t realize until he patches directly into the datapad in your hand and fresh words begin inserting themselves into the middle of your document.WINDVOICEIt’s slow, every single glyph is slow, but it’s impressive progress that he’s able to communicate with direct words at all, considering how he was doing when you met him. You hold onto that thought while hoping that he doesn’t accidentally corrupt the document you’re working on. "Yes?"





	Isn't It Grand, Boys?

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/166169089011/isnt-it-grand-boys-spockandawe-the)

You’re caught up in your work, or you would have noticed sooner that Metroplex is trying to get your attention. As it is, you don’t realize until he patches directly into the datapad in your hand and fresh words begin inserting themselves into the middle of your document.

WIND

VOICE

It’s slow, every single glyph is slow, but it’s impressive progress that he’s able to communicate with direct words at all, considering how he was doing when you met him. You hold onto that thought while hoping that he doesn’t accidentally corrupt the document you’re working on.

WIND-VOICE

“Yes?” You look around for his nearest cameras, while you gather up your datapads to head back to his brain chamber. It’ll be faster to read what he’s trying to say off his lights or his own consoles instead of waiting for him to type it out remotely. “Do you need something?”

You don’t get an answer for a long klik, and as soon as you’ve got all your belongings collected, you head off at a fast walk. Whatever he needs must be urgent for him to reach out to you like this.

WORDS

And nothing else. You try not to get too anxious, though you don’t know how much of a pause is _too_ much and when you should start worrying. “Metroplex?”

PLATING

WORDS

You let yourself relax a little. “Do you mean the graffiti? I know there’s been a lot and we haven’t been able to keep up with it— I don’t think most of the mechs doing it are used to being in a living Titan.” It’s more than a little shocking to the mechs who _are_ used to it. Some of the most religious ones have lodged complaints about blasphemy, though fortunately, you think it’s been mostly limited to complaints. “We can work on some sort of outreach program, something educational, and as things quiet down I’m sure it will stop.”

There’s another long pause and you wonder if that’s all that was on his mind. It’s… strange that he’d message you this way if that is the only thing. But you’re almost to his brain chamber.

WRITTEN

SWINDLE LIVES

“Oh yes, _that_ graffiti should have definitely stopped by now.” Whatever hold Starscream has on the Combaticons, Swindle’s survival is public knowledge. You certainly hope nobody is trying to make a statement by painting that on a living person’s walls at this point. “Is there any that we’ve missed? I can send someone out to clean it up if you can show me a map.”

There isn’t any immediate answer. When you walk through the door into Metroplex’s brain chamber, you’re hoping that you can get more from his machinery than you’re getting from him directly. But you’re taken aback by the pattern of lights flickering across the surface of his brain module. You’ve never seen any lights like this before, not even in your training simulations. You haven’t got a clue what it means, but the uneven way the lights move is making you nervous.

“Metroplex?”

You go to his nearest console, bringing the datapad with you. You’re debating whether you should call Lightbright, or even whether you should hail one of the older teachers from Caminus, but if you can just figure out what’s _wrong—_

The console is strangely slow to boot up and something is… _off_ about its screen when it does come online. The graphics look almost crooked, though perhaps you’re jumping at shadows. But when you try to access his system readouts, the display is slow to respond, and when you stop for a moment to stare at the screen, you can _see_ the graphics starting to slip off the edge of the screen.

WIND-VOIEC

That’s… alarming. You’re mentally flipping through everything you learned about Titan illness—you try not to think about sabotage—while you wait for his system readouts to load.

WORDS

Another pause. “Yes?”

W

ORDS

DESIRED

Oh! That’s… _Primus._ For a start, that’s something you aren’t sure you’re qualified to handle. That’s a sacred task on a level with cityspeaking, but one that Caminus hasn’t had need of in millions of years. You aren’t sure if anyone is left who remembers the formal process, which is a depressing thought in its own right, but you’re sure you can find some way to make this work. Once you figure out what’s happening here of course. This display is definitely crooked. And why won’t these readouts _load?_

“Of course,” you tell him. “Just let me help you with this first. Can you tell me what’s wrong? Does anything hurt?”

WORDS

“I’ll help you with words! I will. But please, can’t you tell me what’s wrong right now?”

Metroplex is still unresponsive, but finally, _finally,_ his system readouts are loading. And— Yes, something is definitely abnormal here. It doesn’t look like anything you would have expected. These patterns don’t match any illness you can think of. But there’s no evidence of tampering. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost say—

“Are you _drunk?_ ”

WRITTEN

SIWINLE LIVE

S

“Metroplex, are you drunk??” How—? That can’t be right. That _cannot_ be right. Who would have brought him engex? Who could have found enough engex to affect a mech the size of a Titan? Wouldn’t you have heard about this before now? You try to enter a search on his console, but the graphics lurch while you try to type, and even if you managed to write out a word you aren’t sure the page would load.

WORDS

DSIERED

You take the datapad with you as you go over to the little library of resources you brought with you from Caminus. It isn’t much, not with Caminus itself and so many other cityspeakers so close at hand, but this shouldn’t be a difficult search to run. And at least it’s something you can actually _use,_ unlike a certain someone’s internal systems.

WINDV-OICE

WIDN

VOICE

WIND

VOIIEC

Your datapad screen flashes at you while you ignore it and continue reading. He’s meddling with more than just words now. Though he’s probably about to hack into this datapad too—

WNWID-VOICE

There it is.

But you have your answer. You look incredulously at his brain module. “You’re drunk.” No answer. Nothing at all. “You had to refine the engex _inside your own frame_ to do this to yourself. How long have you been doing this? Are you planning on _stopping_ anytime soon?” Still no answer. You don’t even want to think about how long it would take a Titan’s metabolism to process that much engex.

WRITETEN

SWINDSLE LIVES

“Oh yes? And what about it?”

WORDSS

DSESIRED

Remarkably, you’re not quite so taken with the idea of sacred painting anymore. You look suspiciously down at the datapad. “What words?”

Silence. More silence.

CAMINUS

LIVES

Every screen in the room brings up a map of the city, with a location marked out. It takes you a moment to figure out what you’re looking at, since _none_ of the screens are very readable right now. But he’s highlighted a section of plating the size of an entire city block, and— _“Really?_ You want that written on your _aft?_ _”_

No answer. Just quiet, expectant lights.

You cross your arms. “Absolutely not. I’m not having any part of this. I _refuse_ to help you put drunken graffiti on your aft.”

All the lights turn sullen. Every screen in the room switches to a new map. With a larger section of plating highlighted.

CAMNIUS

LIVES

“That is your entire chest, and _that isn’t even spelled right._ I am _not_ helping you paint that.”

Even more sullen now.

WORSDD

A pause.

“What about them?’

WRORDS

ENGRVAED

You’re… too tired to handle this. You are not handling this right now. You aren’t sure you’ll ever experience _not_ being too tired to handle this. You sincerely doubt you’ll ever be prepared to deal with a drunk Titan demanding you engrave his frame. But the main point is that _you’re leaving._

He locks the door. Metroplex honestly locks the door. When you look back over your shoulder, his lights blink oh-so-innocently, but you _know better._ You tap the access pad again, and the door doesn’t budge. “ _For Primus’ sake,_ ” you say. You enter in an emergency override code and bolt before he can figure out how to stop you again.

Emergency lights start flashing in the hallways, but short of actually transforming (for the love of Primus, please no), he doesn’t have any way to cut you off. You head directly to the nearest intersection that opens to the sky and fly off before he can think of anything else.

You don’t make it far before your comms start pinging you insistently. You really don’t want to open any of the messages. You already know what’s coming. But—

ENGRAVAED

CAMNIUS

LIVES

You mute that channel. And within a klik, _other_ channels start pinging you. Chromia is apparently very concerned with how ‘Camnius’ lives as well, as well as Wheeljack, Rattrap, every contact on your personal and official comms as well as comm frequencies you don’t recognize— You mute the entire comm suite.

As much as you want to just go hide in your quarters and ignore this mess until it all goes away, you really, _really_ ought to warn Starscream that this is about to be dropped in his lap.

Yes, as it happens, you don’t even get the opportunity to warn him. It only takes you a few kliks to fly to the council building, but by the time you land, every screen you can see is covered with CAMNIUS LIVES. Broadcast screens, personal datapads, and you can see quite a lot of blinking comm alert lights on people’s frames. And Caminus’s name is misspelled every time, as far as you can tell. You don’t even have to look for Starscream, because he’s already waiting for you when you touch down.

He leads off with an acid, “Ignoring your messages, I see.”

“Anything you tried to send got buried in nanokliks,” you tell him. You take a quick peek at your comms. _Thousands_ of unread messages, all just since you left Metroplex. “I promise I’m not any happier with the situation than you.”

“Then do you care to _explain?_ ”

There’s probably a diplomatic way to phrase this. Or at least a delicate way. “He’s drunk.”

At least you have the satisfaction of seeing Starscream being as taken aback as you were. So there’s at least one upside to the day.

He says, “That… happens?”

“Apparently.”

“So knowledgeable.” He crosses his arms. He’s trying to act like he has a handle on the situation, but you can’t even bring yourself to care about the stupid posturing. A screen is flashing CAMNIUS LIVES at you over his shoulder, and it’s a _little_ distracting. “I don’t suppose you have any idea of how long until this little adventure ends?”

You shrug. “Any moment, if he activates his FIM chip. Other than that… Years?”

Starscream’s act slips again. _“Years?”_

“Titan physiology. But then again, what do _I_ know.” You rub the bridge of your nose. You’re getting a headache. You wave a vague hand at one of the flashing screens “He wants us to paint that on his frame. Maybe engrave.”

“Engrave,” Starscream says. “He’s been… insistent on that point.”

Your head really is starting to hurt. “It isn’t even spelled right.”

He shrugs. “Give him what he wants, and let him regret it later.”

“No, you— _No._ It’s—” Your head is pounding. “I can’t even go into all the religious tradition behind this. Ask— I don’t know. Any Camien. Ask them why it’s a bad idea. Sacrilegious. And don’t do it.”

“And your plan to _deal_ with this problem?”

Plan? That’s hilarious. And none of this even touches on the way you don’t know if this affects Metroplex’s space bridge. Or if he can patch through the other Titans the way he patches through electronics systems here. No, nope, you are at a complete loss, and you’re not going to bring up all the extra ways you’re at a loss that Starscream hasn’t thought of yet. Before he can catch on to all these other problems, you’re leaving.

As tempting as it is to get just as drunk as Metroplex, once you spot your berth, that’s all you can think of. You could drink to forget, _or_ you could go to sleep and perhaps you’ll wake up in a decade and all of this will have been long over. You go straight for the berth, but don’t quite make it there before your lights all start flashing, as well as every screen in the room. And to top it all off, every device you have capable of making noise… is doing that thing.

 _No._ You refuse. It’s not happening. You collect up all the little beeping electronics and toss them in a drawer of your desk and slam it shut. It doesn’t quite cut them off, but it muffles them enough to ignore. The lights and screens are still flashing, but you lie down and shut down your optics, and there you go, it’s like nothing is wrong at all. You can hear the machinery in the walls hum just moments before the ventilation system picks up, but you doubt the environmental controls in a building like this will go to extremes that will bother you, and you’re _determined_ to get a good night of sleep, for no other reason than sheer spite.

It works, somehow.

You’re honestly surprised that Metroplex didn’t find some way to wake you up in the middle of the night, or that Starscream didn’t come storming down to demand you find a way to solve the problem. And it isn’t just that nobody woke you up early, but you even manage to sleep in a little before you give up on pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

Your lights are back to normal. They’re dimmed, even, which you didn’t do yourself. Your screens are blank. The ventilation system isn’t in overdrive. And there isn’t any muffled beeping coming from your desk. It’s so, so tempting to imagine that Metroplex realized he was being ridiculous and decided to sober up on his own. You are _incredibly_ suspicious.

Starscream doesn’t answer you when you cautiously ping his comms. He could be busy or asleep. Or ignoring you. None of the screens in the rest of the building are acting up. You do get some odd looks, and a few laughing remarks about how that’s just like a Titan, isn’t it (you really hope it’s _not_ ). You finally take to the air intending to go visit Metroplex’s control room—or maybe just go to the _door_ of the control room so he can’t lock you in—but you can’t shake a nagging sense of suspicion, and instead you make your way to the part of the city that covers his chest plates.

When you see the first few mechs walking away with heavy machinery, you try to convince yourself it’s for… some other reason. Construction work. Other things. It gets harder and harder to believe it the more mechs you see, until you’re flying over full work crews all leaving exactly the area Metroplex tried to send you towards and you can’t shake the sinking feeling in your fuel tank.

So it isn’t exactly a surprise to find his plating engraved. And it isn’t even a surprise to see it done without any signs of ceremony and ritual, especially given how insistent Metroplex was. It’s not even really a surprise when you fly up high enough to see the words and it’s written out as CAMNIUS LIVES. It’s the message he sent over and over and over, after all. Just the way he asked for it. Honestly, you’re almost positive this is Starscream’s doing, and you’d absolutely believe that he left that misspelling on purpose. If he did? _You sympathize._

You’re not surprised, you’re not even disappointed, you’re just… resigned. Your one single hope is that now that Metroplex has gotten what he wanted, maybe he’s decided it’s time to sober up. He’s being quiet, but you still play it safe and go close enough to open the door of his brain chamber, but you don’t step inside. And you might not be close enough to make out the readouts you never closed on his console, but there’s no mistaking the drunken way his lights still swirl.

You give up. You let yourself sigh out loud and say, “Of course.” Because nothing can ever be easy. But maybe, _hopefully_ now that he’s gotten his awful, misspelled engraving, he can just be quietly, pleasantly drunk, and enjoy himself without bothering anyone else until he decides he wants to be sober again. You’ll even overlook the smug, self-satisfied way his lights are blinking at you right now.

And then, just as you’re starting to consider going into the room with him again, his screens flicker and bring up a map, a map you already recognize. You know what’s about to happen, but you can’t decide whether to run or just resign yourself to your fate. You stand there, half of you ready to laugh and the other half helpless as his lights flash a drunk, hopeful question at you, all while every single screen in the room displays a highlighted map of Metroplex’s aft plating.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/166169089011/isnt-it-grand-boys-spockandawe-the)


End file.
